Chapter 1

“How’s Nate settling in at the college?” Zoe asked as she passed her new friend and neighbour a mug of coffee. Dr Zoe Monroe had been a little shocked when she looked out of her kitchen window to see two huge black men on the lawn just 2 months back. As it turned out those two men were father and son and had just moved into the house right next door.

“He’s doing ok I guess. That’s kind of why I came by.” Tiara Jones replied.

Growing up where she did, Zoe had never really had any black friends. Not that she considered herself to be racist in any way, but she had heard stories or other white people in her town giving their opinions on other races, and when she had gotten to know Tiara she couldn’t help but notice just how normal and like her, she seemed. The two of them hit it off straight away, gossiping about the other neighbours and these little coffee visits seemed to happen every few days.

“He’s just not quite been himself of late. He keeps locking himself away in that room of his for hours on end and seems to be miserable...” Tiara continued.

“Well moving to a new school and town is stressful for anyone. Maybe he is just shy and missing his home,” Zoe interjected.

“Trust me. If there is one thing that Nate isn’t, then it’s shy ... Besides, I asked him what was wrong and that he didn’t seem himself and told me to just leave him alone and that he was fine. His Dad went to talk to him and he told Jamal that he was just a little depressed or something ... Anyway, that’s why I came by. I wanted to ask, seeing as you are a doctor and all, if you would maybe have a talk with him?”

“Well, I guess I could see him. But we would need to make it an official appointment at my office. And I have to warn you that I won’t be able to discuss anything that Nate tells me with yourself. I take Doctor-Patient privilege very seriously.” Zoe said sternly. She didn’t normally like taking on friends as patients, but she knew that a new town could be a lonely place and she wanted Tiara and her family to know they weren’t alone.

“Of course. It will be enough just to know that he is being taken care of from a professional. Thank you Zoe, you’re a good friend! He doesn’t normally go to the doctors, but maybe we can get my Husband in for a check-up at some stage too. He’s not exactly getting any younger.” She added smiling.

“Well, I’ll sort out an appointment for Nate and give you a call with the details. And maybe we can get that old man of yours in for a routine check-up in a few weeks’ time. Put your mind at ease,” Zoe said with a light laugh.

But as she pictured Jamal—Tiara’s husband—there was only amusement in the idea of calling him old. Yes, he was in his mid-forties, just like Tiara, and he kept his head shaved bald with a touch of grey threading through his goatee. But nothing about him felt aged. He had the kind of body that turned heads—lean, broad, and sculpted like a man half his age. His face was fresh, his posture confident. If anything, Zoe thought, he could have easily passed for Nate’s older brother rather than his father.

She remembered the first time they’d all met, the surprise she’d felt at how youthful Jamal appeared. And then there was that afternoon not long after they moved in—the Jones family hosting a backyard barbecue, the warm sun bathing everything in gold, smoke from the grill curling lazily into the air. Zoe had watched from her kitchen window, pretending to tidy the counter while sneaking glances outside.

Both Jamal and Nate had their shirts off, glistening with heat and exertion as they laughed and drank and moved with effortless power. She found herself studying them—comparing them, even—unable to decide which of the two black men was more physically impressive. Nate had youth on his side, but Jamal had that seasoned edge, the kind of masculine confidence that came from years of owning who he was.

Zoe had been deep in her internal debate when Tiara caught her standing there, staring a little too long. Instead of calling her out, Tiara had simply smiled and waved her over.

“Come join us,” she’d called.

And Zoe had. Eventually.

Zoe herself was hardly a shrinking violet when it came to physical appeal. At twenty-nine, she still carried the toned, disciplined grace of her youth—years spent as a dedicated gymnast, where she’d shown real promise. But unlike the other girls who remained slim and slight, Zoe’s body had begun to transform early. Year by year, curve by curve, she filled out in ways that gymnastics didn’t exactly reward.

She had tried to keep up, fighting her own natural development, but eventually, she’d accepted what her body was becoming. Short and strong at five foot two, but lushly proportioned—her 32F-24-35 frame turned heads whether she meant it to or not. The sport had its limits. Zoe had outgrown them.

She left her competitive dreams behind and pivoted with purpose, pouring her discipline into medical school. A decade later, her figure remained striking. Rigid fitness routines, clean eating, and the fact she hadn’t yet had children had preserved her physique with almost unfair perfection. Toned limbs, a small waist, full breasts, a high, sculpted ass—Zoe had the kind of body that didn’t just demand attention, it lingered in memory.

Barry certainly hadn’t missed the irony.

“If times ever get tough,” he liked to tease, “it’s nice to know we’ve got your stripper’s body to fall back on.”

“Honey, I’m home! Where’s my stripper?” came his usual bellow from the front door.

“In the kitchen, Barry,” Zoe called back, her voice flat with playful embarrassment.

“Stripper?” Tiara laughed, arching a brow.

“Just a long-standing joke he has,” Zoe said, rolling her eyes with a small smile. But even as she said it, she couldn’t help the flush that rose to her cheeks.

Tiara slung her purse over her shoulder and gave a parting grin. “Don’t mind me, I’m just heading home to make the guys some dinner. Thanks again, Zoe, I really appreciate it. Nice seeing you, Barry ... enjoy the strip show.”

As she stepped out the door, Tiara glanced over her shoulder one last time, curiosity tugging faintly at the corners of her smile. She wondered, not for the first time, what Zoe really saw in him...

He was a good man—kind, gentle, decent. But visually? Barry Monroe left a lot to be desired. He was short, noticeably chubby, with wisps of thinning hair combed in a futile attempt to conceal a persistent bald patch. Thick-rimmed glasses—what Zoe privately referred to as “milk bottle lenses”—sat perpetually crooked on his nose. Aesthetically, he wasn’t anyone’s fantasy. But in truth, that had never really mattered to her.

Zoe had met Professor Monroe during her university years. He’d been one of her tutors, and from the moment they spoke, she was struck not by his appearance but by his mind. He was brilliant, sharply intelligent, warm in a way most academic types weren’t. He listened with interest. He challenged her. And above all, he made her feel seen.

Back then, a decade ago, he’d at least had a flat stomach and a full head of hair. It hadn’t been love at first sight—nothing so dramatic—but at nineteen, surrounded by immature boys playing at being men, Barry had seemed like the real thing. Grounded. Confident. Capable. A man with substance.

They married two years later, and for the most part, had lived a contented, even happy, life together. There were routines and shared smiles. Affection in the familiar sense. Not the kind that sets your soul on fire—but the kind that feels steady. Safe.

But not everything had gone to plan.

No matter how hard they tried, Zoe hadn’t been able to conceive. Month after month of disappointment had given way to tests, then more tests, and finally, a quiet diagnosis: the problem lay with Barry. A low sperm count. Faint hope diminished further by numbers and charts.

They’d talked it through—long, honest conversations that ended in tears and quiet acceptance. They agreed to keep trying naturally, but only until Zoe turned thirty and Barry hit forty. That was the line they’d drawn. If nothing happened by then, they would adopt.

Now, with those birthdays less than a year away, Zoe couldn’t shake the growing certainty that adoption was their future. And while she loved Barry ... a small, aching part of her grieved the child she might never carry. The child they would never create together.

“Ready to show me that hot body of yours?” Barry teased, as he kissed his wife on the cheek.

“God Barry, you are so embarrassing. What will Tiara think?”

“Oh please, where they come from I’m sure they’ve seen and heard a lot worse than that!” He retorted.

“Don’t start that racist crap again, I warned you about that.”

“I’m just teasing. Like you teasing me with that body of yours. Come on ... I’ve got a wallet full of dollar bills,” He tickled his wife’s sides.

“Dollar bills? You cheeky sod ... You better go to the ATM and get some real money, because this girls body is for high-end clients only” She teased back, unbuttoning the top two buttons on her blouse.

“Jesus Zoe, empty the bank accounts just get your ass upstairs.” He said, tossing her his wallet and grabbing her by the hand.

Zoe lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her body still and her thoughts anything but. Frustration simmered beneath her skin like a low-grade fever. Why did she always let herself get so worked up? It was the same every time—her husband would come home, shout something cringeworthy about his “stripper,” and she’d half-heartedly play along. The more she indulged his little roleplay fantasies, the less control he seemed to have over himself.

“6:07 p.m.,” she thought, glancing at the clock with narrowed eyes. Right on schedule. He always walked through the door at exactly six. That gave them ... what? Three minutes of awkward teasing. Two minutes to get undressed. One minute of so-called ecstasy. And another minute of sweaty, breathless praise about how amazing she was.

Then this. Silence. Flat, breathy silence.

She rolled her eyes and turned her head toward him. Barry lay beside her, naked and flushed, his chest rising and falling with exaggerated effort. His stomach had grown so soft and rounded that she could barely see his penis beneath it anymore. Not that there was much to see.

“Not that it was ever very big to begin with,” she admitted silently, not unkindly, but with the simple resignation of a woman who had no real comparison. Barry was the only man she had ever been intimate with. He was her first—and her only. But as a doctor, she had seen other men. Examined them. And she couldn’t help but notice that most seemed to be ... more generously equipped. Longer. Thicker. Healthier.

She remembered one particularly inappropriate incident—an aroused patient with an erection that must have been six, maybe even seven inches. A flash of heat hit her cheeks even now as the image resurfaced. It had startled her then. Impressed her, if she was honest. But still, she reminded herself: size doesn’t matter. It’s love that makes it special.

She turned toward her husband, offered a soft kiss to his shoulder, and whispered, “That was great, honey.”

He smiled, satisfied and already drifting, and Zoe held the lie between her teeth like a pebble she couldn’t swallow.

“Your four fifteen is here, Doctor,” Claire called softly from the doorway.

Zoe looked up from her desk, already gathering her things, eager to wrap the day. “Thanks, Claire. Send him in,” she replied, straightening her posture and smoothing her skirt with automatic precision.

Moments later, the door opened again.

“Hi Nate,” she greeted with a warm, welcoming smile. “Please close the door behind you and come take a seat.”

The young man who stepped inside didn’t move like a boy, nor did he look like one. Nate Jones was eighteen, yes—but he towered at six-foot-three and carried himself with the dense, deliberate weight of someone sculpted by years of athletic discipline. The kind of body that didn’t just develop—it was built. The kind that filled a room before a word was spoken. A linebacker for the local university team, Zoe remembered Tiara saying.

Still, there was something shy in the way he moved now—uncertain, like his bulk was something he didn’t quite know how to carry.

He sat down quietly. Zoe studied him briefly. Not just the size of him, but his face—strong, youthful, handsome. Nervous.

“So,” she began, her tone soft and measured, “how are you, Nate?”

“I’m alright, I guess,” he muttered, eyes focused somewhere near the carpet, carefully avoiding hers.

“Well, your mother mentioned you might be feeling a little depressed. Or perhaps just stressed, and I wanted to—”

“No. I’m okay. I’m not depressed.” He cut her off abruptly, shifting in his seat. “Listen, this was a bad idea coming here.”

He started to move, just slightly, as though preparing to stand, to bolt.

“Nate,” Zoe said gently, rising from her chair with deliberate calm. “Whatever’s troubling you, I promise I will do everything I can to help you. And you don’t have to worry—about your parents, about anyone else. Everything said here stays here.”

She crossed the room slowly and placed her hand on his shoulder. The muscle beneath her palm was solid, tense with hesitation. Her voice softened further. “What happens between a doctor and their patient stays between the doctor and the patient. Please ... just sit. Talk to me.”

He looked up then—finally—meeting her eyes. There was something searching in his gaze. A flicker of relief, maybe. Something vulnerable trying not to show.

He nodded once and lowered himself back into the chair.

“It’s embarrassing,” he admitted quietly, turning away again as though the words themselves carried shame.

“Everyone feels embarrassed the first time they talk about something personal with their doctor,” Zoe said, easing herself back down into her seat across from him. “I promise you—I’ve heard and seen just about everything. This is what I do. If there’s a problem, I’m here to help.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice calm but urging now, the warmth in her tone unmistakable.

“Please, Nate. Just let me help you.”

“Well ... if you must know,” Nate said, his voice low and strained, “I think I’d like to get ... a reduction.”

Zoe blinked. “A reduction?” she echoed, puzzled.

“Yeah. You know ... a reduction,” he repeated, eyes dropping to the floor, as if the word itself was too heavy to carry.

“I’m sorry, Nate, you’ll have to be a little more specific,” she replied, brows knitting slightly. Was he talking about muscle mass? His height? His frame?

Nate exhaled sharply, frustration and shame flashing across his face. “Fuck sakes,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. A few seconds passed, taut with silence. Then he finally said it, all at once, like ripping off a bandage.

“I want to get my cock reduced.”

Zoe froze.

“Your what?” she asked, stunned—not because she hadn’t understood the word, but because she couldn’t quite believe she’d heard it in a clinical setting. “Cock” was something her more unfiltered friends threw around after a few glasses of wine—not a term she expected from an 18-year-old sitting across from her in her office.

“My dick. My junk. I want to get it reduced. In size.” He spelled it out, still not looking at her.

“Your penis,” she said carefully, trying to ground the word in something medical, something neutral. “You want to get your penis reduced in size.”

She sat back slightly. “Sorry. I just ... I didn’t quite grasp what you were saying.” Then, without thinking, she added, “Well, that’s definitely new.”

“I thought you said you’d heard it all,” Nate replied with a dry laugh, trying to ease the weight of the moment.

Zoe chuckled too, the tension easing just a touch. “Well, you certainly have me there.”

She took a breath, still a little disoriented by the confession. “I’m sorry, Nate. I wasn’t expecting that. I’ve never had anyone come to me with this particular issue. Usually, it’s quite the opposite.”

She let that land, then softened her tone. “Why exactly do you feel like you need a ... penis reduction?”

“I don’t just feel like I want one,” Nate said, his voice firmer now. “I feel like I need one. It’s ruining everything.”

“In what way?” she asked, leaning forward slightly, her curiosity now fully piqued.

“It gets in the way when I’m playing sports,” he said, and she could hear the frustration in his voice.

“It gets in the way?” Zoe repeated, trying—without much success—to imagine the logistics.

“Yes,” Nate emphasised. “I can feel it bouncing around. Sometimes it falls out the bottom of my underwear or shorts. Other times, my balls get crushed between my legs when I run. I can’t reach my full potential on the field if I’m constantly worried about something slipping out—or getting smashed.”